Bernard DeVoto

by Philip Gambone

In my last column, I wrote about the first of a trio of books focused on the relations between Mexico and the United States during the 1840s, the so-called "Roaring Forties." This week, I turn to the second of those three books: Year of Decision: 1846, by the eminent American historian Bernard DeVoto.

At the height of his prolific career, DeVoto (1897-1955) turned his attention to the story of American "continentalism," the pursuit of a single, continent-wide nation by the young United States. His efforts won him a Pulitzer Prize, a Bancroft Prize, and the National Book Award for nonfiction. DeVoto's epic saga culminated in Year of Decision: 1846, the year the U.S. went to war with Mexico. It was a year crowded with other events as well, political and cultural. In fact, 1846 was one of the most dramatic and decisive years in the history of the United States, as DeVoto's book admirably demonstrates.

James K Polk
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"Americans," DeVoto wrote, "had always devoutly believed that the superiority of their institutions, government, and mode of life would eventually spread, by inspiration and imitation, to less fortunate, less happy peoples." By the mid-1840s, a decade after the Battle of the Alamo, which had led to the secession of the province of Texas from Mexico, that belief took a new turn: America's "destiny" was to spread its culture and institutions by action as well as by example. With the election of James K. Polk, who took office in March 1845, this notion of "Manifest Destiny" became a mandate for outright annexation of more territory, first of Texas and soon of other Mexican provinces in the Far West. Indeed, it became a mandate for war.

Texas after the American annexation of December 1845
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DeVoto's thesis is that the annexation of Texas and the subsequent war with Mexico prepared the way for the American Civil War. The expansion of the United States resulted in fractious compromises between those who wanted new states to admit slavery and those who vehemently opposed that policy. Those compromises—the designation of some states as slave states and others as free states—meant that the U.S. had ultimately failed to confront the "chaotic contradiction" at the core of the American democratic experiment. Throughout the book, DeVoto calls attention to the enormous tragedy that was brewing. When slavery was extended in the newly acquired Texas, an evil balance was struck, the powder keg was prepared, and the polarization of the country cemented. In the short run, the annexation of Texas led to the Mexican American War. In the long run, an even bloodier confrontation lay ahead. "At some time between August and December, 1846," he writes, "the Civil War had begun."

Free and Slave States in 1846
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In addition to the Mexican War, DeVoto covers a lot else that transpired in 1846: the Mormon emigration to West; the communitarian experiment at Brook Farm; the so-called "Great Migration" into Oregon and California; the Donner party fiasco; the music of Stephen Foster; the invention of ether; and the industrialization of the country. It's a story of courage, stamina, self-righteousness, hubris, resourcefulness, greed, and over-arching ambition—the best and worst of the American spirit. "An abundance of spectacle," he calls it.

Zachary Taylor
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Mexico plays a central role in DeVoto's story. Americans of all stripes viewed their Mexican neighbors as a contemptible lot. "Great scamps," a correspondent wrote in one newspaper of the era. "A thieving, cowardly, dancing, lewd people, and generally indolent and faithless." (He probably would have called them drug dealers, too, if such a crime existed back then.)

The book is peopled with a huge and colorful cast of characters. And in DeVoto's telling, most of them get their comeuppance. President Polk has a mind that is "rigid, narrow, obstinate, far from first-rate." General Zachary Taylor's courage is "an inspiration," just as well "for his intelligence and his professional competence were not." John Frémont is full of "unstable egotism." Francis Parkman is "a Brahmin snob and our greatest historian." General Winfield Scott, a "great soldier," exhibits a vanity that is "monstrous." James Buchanan, then Secretary of State, is a gentleman politician "who had the greatest possible shrewdness but no backbone whatever."

Francis Parkman
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DeVoto was one of those historians who approach the writing of history as a literary art. That ethic is apparent throughout The Year of Decision. He gets all the facts right, but beyond that he delights in the handsome turn of phrase. Consider this passage, about the mania for westward exploration, one of many such passages I could quote:

James Buchanan
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This kind of history writing may not be your cup of tea, but it's often great fun to read. In his biography of DeVoto, Wallace Stegner described the man as "flawed, brilliant, provocative, outrageous ... often wrong, often spectacularly right, always stimulating, sometimes infuriating, and never, never dull." I think Stegner got DeVoto perfectly right.

DeVoto wrote The Year of Decision during the darkest days of World War II. Throughout the book's 500 pages, he kept his eye on the year 1846, not 1942. But I wonder if he wasn't thinking about comparisons between America's expansionist tyranny and the expansionist tyranny that was threatening Europe. Readers of the book today, as they confront the sad, tragic, often villainous relationship the United States pursued with Mexico, will find it impossible not to draw parallels with today's political situation. President Polk, in particular, comes across as Donald Trump Lite. When the Senate delayed authorizing the raising of an army to go after Mexico, Polk was furious. DeVoto writes: "He always regarded a difference of opinion as a political attack on him; from now on he regarded one, quite honestly, as a species of treason." A perfect example of the old adage, Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

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Philip Gambone, a retired high school English teacher, also taught creative and expository writing at Harvard for twenty-eight years. For over a decade, his book reviews appeared regularly in The New York Times. Phil is the author of seven books. His memoir, As Far As I Can Tell: Finding My Father in World War II, was named one of the Best Books of 2020 by the Boston Globe. His new collection of short stories, Zigzag, was published last year by Rattling Good Yarns Press. His books are available through Amazon and at "Tesoros," the bookshop at the Biblioteca.

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